


By the pricking of my thumbs, something (not so) wicked this way comes

by ArchangelOfAwesomeness



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, No Smut, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 08:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20386774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelOfAwesomeness/pseuds/ArchangelOfAwesomeness
Summary: Prompt: Macbeth appears in your room one night and watches you sleep. Despite not uttering a work, you realise he isn't all bad.





	By the pricking of my thumbs, something (not so) wicked this way comes

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, hi, I don't even know any more.
> 
> (There are probably spelling errors, I haven't proof read this.)

The night was young and the air was crisp with an unusual lingering presence. You lay in bed, eyes locked on the door at the far side of the room, unable to shake the feeling that something wicked rests on the other side. 

Your heart pounds in your chest but you tell yourself it's nothing. Just another figment of your imagination. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to fall asleep but to no avail. After what felt like hours, but was only really a couple of minutes, you reopen your eyes to find a dark shadow at the foot of your bed. Your breath hitches and you begin to sweat nervously, slowly you reach, with a quivering hand, for your bedside lamp. 

A click sounds and the room is filled with the dull lamp light. You search the room for anything out of place. Nothing. Nothing apart from a shadow in the corner of the room. It looked like a coat rack, if only you owned a coat rack. You look closer and notice that it looks like it's moving, shaking to be precise.

"H-hello...Who's there..?" You call out, resulting in the shadow to freeze for a moment before shambling into the light.

He was a middle aged man dressed in old royal robes and an equally as old, tattered crown. The words 'Treacherous Macbeth' were etched into the side of his face with remarkable pen-or rather knife-manship. 

You know that, if this is Macbeth, THE Macbeth, you should feel nothing for him but you can't help but pity him. You allow you eyes to travel over his body and note that he is thin, dangerously thin, and his body is scored with the lashes of a whip. 

Macbeth opens his mouth as if trying to say something but promptly closes it after producing no more than a hollow croak. He shivers violently, looking at your warm bed longingly.

You sigh a little, scooting over and making room for him, not a word is uttered as he climbs into your bed beside you and nuzzles against your side, desperate for whatever warmth he could get.


End file.
